


Prompts

by She_Who_Shall_Not_Be_Named



Series: Prompts [1]
Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Tommy Ratliff (Musician)
Genre: Friendship/Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-01-15 16:49:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1312114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/She_Who_Shall_Not_Be_Named/pseuds/She_Who_Shall_Not_Be_Named
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I swear it’s not my fault. My sister (from another mister) and I were talking about future projects, one where I would write one shots based on prompts folks would give me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Broken Flower

**Author's Note:**

> Next thing I know, her hubby comes up with ‘broken flower’ … Of course my mind couldn't let it go… The mind, well my mind, is a mysterious thing… 
> 
> Yep, his cherry, or should I say his flower is now officially popped.

No matter how much we like to pretend otherwise or like to believe human perception has evolved over the years, the sad fact is, it hasn't. Real men are tough. Real men never, _ever_ , show signs of weakness. Real men _don't_ cry.

Yeah right...  
  
Both had shown signs of weakness. Both had cried, at one point or another, one more than one occasion. Both had embraced their softer, vulnerable side, still both were _definitely_ men.  
  
Tears sting his eyes, burn his skin as they roll down. Still, he can’t help but smile thinking back to some of the things they have done over the years. Come to think of it, he's damn sure there isn't much, if anything, left they _haven't_ done.

Together they shared a thousand and one first ones. First show, first TV appearance, first tour, first nomination, first award, first time as a producer, first time on the big screen, first fucking Oscar! Damn, that had been a glorious day! The first time getting hitched, becoming a father, the heartache of that first divorce, becoming a grandparent. That, too, had been one of the highlights of their lives.

They've been each other’s partner in crime through countless epic and ridiculous badass moments. _You ride together. You die together. Bad boys for life_. Some twenty or so years ago, after another wild night, they decided – as an inside joke – to get it inked onto their skin. Who was he kidding; they were still partners in crime. No matter what, it would never change.

Together they experienced their highest of highs and lowest of lows. Giving what the other needed, taking what the other was offering, without questioning why. Ever.

Wildflowers, that’s what they were. That’s what they _are._

In their highest of highs, to him, he was a beautiful wild rose; towering over all the others, swaying to the wind in a sea of color, standing out because of _his_ color; the brightest, warmest, daring shade of red.

In their lowest of lows, to him, no wildflower would, could have come close. The only flower that, in a strange, almost macabre way could do him justice was the bat orchid. Just like him it was a dark mystery, a freak of nature and so very much in your fucking face.

For better or for worse.

In sickness and in health.

For richer or for poorer.

Till death....

This would be another first one to them, too: the first one to die.

The once vibrant colors have faded, changed into a grayish brown. His once so soft petals are no more; they’re shrivelled, torn in so many places.

Despite the fact the most magnificent flower he ever knew is withering away, he’s still beautiful. Though he’s nothing more than a broken flower, to him, he’ll always be beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not all, but some of the stories in this series will be way out of my comfort zone ... Comments are good. Comments help me grow as a writer. Don't be shy, worst case scenario I end up putting a curse on you :)


	2. Longing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A story about Adam’s and Tommy’s friendship. A story in which both are brothers. Brothers from another mother.
> 
> One evening, or morning or whatever one stumbles onto a little something that hits a nerve…

They all go through it on tour, especially on a worldwide one. It’s inevitable. The travelling is one thing which in itself has proven to be pretty damn tiring even on the best of days, no matter how nice those first class seats are. Time zones on the other hand, those are a real pain in the ass. Downright evil things that do horrid things to one’s body clock and therefore one’s whole body. Time zones truly and utterly suck!

Delayed flights on top of that? Pfff, let's not even go there.   
  
It’s way too early or way too damn late - depending on how you look at things - when he opens his eyes, feeling completely lost, not to mention physically broken. Right now, he's not even sure what city he's in let alone what time it is. All he remembers is ‘down time’. His body aches as if he got hit by a damn truck first and crushed by a steamroller later,  _twice_. It doesn’t come as a surprise though, that’s what he gets for falling asleep on the couch, probably curled up in a little ball to begin with only to fall over onto his side like he always does.

He should know better by now. Three tours in, he should know to take off his clothes as soon as he arrives in his hotel room instead of slumping down the couch, grateful to stretch as he pleases. Why can’t he do that on the goddamn bed he wonders?  

As he moves he’s also feeling disgustingly sticky and the left side of his face hurts. The former is the result of not only falling asleep with his clothes on but also being cocooned under a warm duvet. The latter is a no brainer; a tv remote is just not meant to be used as a pillow.    
  
Sitting up, he can barely make out the shape of whatever hotel room he's in. Once his brain somewhat catches up, he recognizes the soft tell-tale sound of a humidifier. He smiles at that, still it tells him absolutely nothing; he’s still totally unsure of whose room he’s actually in. Things like that can get pretty blurred on tour, people walk in and out of each other’s room all the time or end up crashing in or on top of the wrong bed. 

Right now, he needs a bed though, more specifically the bed in this particular room regardless of who might already be in it, man or woman alike. However, being a man, it is _never_ that easy. Being a man means heaving a stupid bladder, a stupid tiny bladder that is forcing him up in search of a bathroom.

Not knowing where his phone is, he has no other option that going in blind, holding out his hands as he makes his way around the room. This is so not to time to be crushing into furniture and stuff. Of course - how could he not - he bumps into something; well actually his pinky toe does, making a painful contact with a suitcase. _Goddamn motherfucking son of bitch_! 

On the bright side of things, judging the cold tiles up against the wall, he’s pretty sure he found the bathroom. Not bothered to look around for the light sitting works just as fine. Sitting means rubbing the pain out of his toe. Sitting is feeling something hard amongst the pile of clothing on the floor. Yeps, at least one other person is in the room with him.

It’s an IPad, one he recognizes instantly. Without thinking he unlocks the screen. They know each other’s passwords, it’s no big deal. He’s not looking to snoop around, why would he? They’re not just buddies, they’re partners in crime. Thick as thieves doesn’t even come close to what they are. 

A notepad opens, which isn’t all that unusual, they both use it to write out lyrics, thoughts, feelings, specially when they're traveling. 

 

_So jealous of people who get to say hi baby, how was your day missed ya_  
 _Most don't know how lucky they are, how I would love to trade places with 'em_

_Where? Where are you baby?_  
 _I don’t know who you are, let alone where you are_  
 _Hell, at this point, I don’t even know if we’ll ever meet_  
 _Don’t mean I don’t look up to the sky, wishing for you to be here_  
 _All I know is I think about you, all of the time_  
  
 _I wanna believe. I need to believe you and I are meant to be_  
 _Too many cold and lonely nights_  
 _Gimme a sign baby, cause right now I need to share my darkest, deepest secrets with you_  
 _Give you the key to not only my heart but my soul as well_  
 _Getting yours in return_  
 _Long to fall apart in your arms, knowing you’ll put me back together_  
  
 _I'm curious. What’s the sound of your laugh like?_  
 _Will I drown in your eyes?_  
 _Do you have a wicked, downright dirty sense of humour like me?_  
 _Will your voice make me shiver even on the warmest summer day?_  
 _Am so curious, baby… Cannot wait to discover you, all of you._  
  
 _I wanna whisper sweet things in your ears._  
 _Write words of love all over your body._  
 _Over and over again till exhaustion takes over._  
 _‘s not what I got though, right now I’ve got nothing_

_So tired of feeling this itch, this longing for something, for someone_  
 _I do know I miss you, more than you will ever know…_

 

The words, who are clearly part of a work in progress, who aren’t even directed _at_ him, cut him open nonetheless. Deep and brutally hard.

Away from his home, cut off from his family and friends, the ones who were there before the Glamily came to be, he knows how it feels. He knows how it feels; that longing of falling asleep with someone. The need to be held close or to be someone else's knight in shining armour even if it is for just one night.  
  
Without thinking he walks over to the bed, grateful for the light of the IPad, undressing as he goes. He tries to be quiet, not wanting to disturb the other man. It's no use though, as soon as his body makes contact with the mattress, no matter how delicate the contact, the sleeping man stirs.  
  
A sleepy "come 'ere" is mumbled in the dark. He doesn't need to be told twice. Grateful for the offered companionship, he curls himself around the other man, let’s himself be held. His aching heart soothed by his bed partner's body heat, by a heartbeat that’s the proverbial light in the dark.  
  
Curled up together, soft lips find his own, fingers intertwine with his own. It's nothing sexual, never was, never will be. It's a promise though. An unspoken I've got you. It's a longing of belonging that, at least for tonight, will be filled. For both of them.


	3. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Perhaps let the situation unfold naturally when they wake up with morning wood..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn’t intend on writing a sequel to the previous chapter, yet this morning, there it was … Right in front of my face… A text to my Finnish partner in crime later, well you guys do the math…

Waking up knowing you don't have to get out of bed, that it's totally cool to just roll over and drift off again is a bloody sublime feeling. 

There’s a little light shining in from behind of the blinds, little being the operative word. He's comfortable. He's warm. He's not alone either; those soft snores on his right can only come from one man. He scratches his balls, his trimmed pubes just for the heck of it. Man-scratching _is_ good. Life is good. 

There's a hand resting on his hip bone, a hand that belongs to the human furnace next to him. There's also a leg resting on top of his. It's good to know some things never change. 'S all good though, this is them, he wouldn’t want it any other way. 

Because he can, down time and all and because he's allowed, he rolls over, snuggling closer to his sleeping friend, not one tiny bit bothered or shocked by the feeling of the other man's erection as he too shifts to accommodate him, pulling him close against his chest. They both have one, a dick that is; morning wood’s bound to happen at one point or another, nothing more natural about being a man. It’s also why they have this unspoken gentlemen’s agreement of briefs staying on when they share a bed. Mutual respect and all. Pure and simple. 

His hand roams over his friend’s naked skin, coming to rest mid-side. There’s a kiss pressed against his eyebrow. “Go back to sleep.” 

When he opens his eyes again, an insignificant amount of time has passed and he finds himself in his favourite sleeping position. No lie, no matter who’s curled around who, this position is his absolute favourite. He’s lying on his side, head half resting on his pillow, half on a warm shoulder, one leg carelessly thrown over the other one’s thighs, his arms casually – protectively - resting over the other one’s chest. 

When he opens his eyes again he’s also wonderfully sleep drunk. He’s in a world of his own where everything’s warm and soft and blissfully marvellous. Matter of fact is, he’s not the only one who’s happy; his dick is right there with him; up and proud. A welcomed heaviness confined in his briefs. Right now though, he simply cannot be bothered to do anything about it, he knows there will be a substantial long jerking off time in the shower later. All is well in a man’s world. 

Nothing, absolutely nothings goes through his mind until the body he’s draped on and over starts to wake, stretching and moving and touching him, _right there_ , in the best way possible, every goddamn time, making it impossible to hold back the moans any longer. 

Before he can so much think about what he's doing, his wiggles a little closer, in search of another touch, another spark in his groin and oh yeah… _Right there_ … Glorious perfection only a man can understand. Who needs a hand when there’s a thigh, right fucking there? Who needs a hand when the angle, touch and pressure are just perfect? 

On nothing but pure instinct he moves his hips, unable to stop the needy sounds that spill from his lips, forgetting everything around him. The more he moves, the more his breathing haywires. Desire rages through his veins, hungry kisses are pressed onto warm skin, lust clouds what little part of his brain that’s somewhat aware of what he’s doing. To _who_ he’s doing it. 

“Why good morning to you, too.” 

Talk about looking like a deer caught in headlights, flailing as he tries to scrabble away. “Oh my God! … Dude! Jezus fucking Christ. I swear…  I didn’t- Fuck! I’m sorry.” 

A laugh fills the room, all open and warm and so distinctively _him_. “For what? Waking up with a boner and wanting to do something about it?” A hand grabs hold of his arm. “Get back in my arms you dumbass.” 

He moves, let's himself be guided back to the position he was in not even a minute ago. What's definitively new is the thigh that's now in full contact with his lower region. There's no way he can hide he's hard as rock. What's also new are the teasing presses of said thigh against his groin. 

He's just a man. A man, with a hard on. A man, with a hard on who's starting to give back as much as he’s getting, for as much as he’s allowed. 

"Go for it, baby." 

He wants, so freaking much. It’s killing him, nonetheless. Walking that fine line between doing the right thing or humping his friend’s bones like a flea bag in heat is going to be the death of him. “I can’t,” he whispers brokenly. They’re not fuck buddies. They're not even on the same team. Fuck his life. 

Fingers roam over his upper body, teasing without crossing boundaries. “Yes, you can. ‘S me, baby.” Dirty words whispered in his ear are what break his resistance, setting his hips in motion. Downright filthy words are whispered in his ear as his hand tightens its grip, as his hips ground his manhood against his bed partner’s thigh. 

No way can he hold back the words nor the sounds he never knew he could make. What's more, words and sounds come back to him. Words and sounds that make him feel more special than ever before. 

His briefs are soaked, both with precum and their combined sweat. They move together, as if they've been doing it for years. It's a match made in heaven. 

"Babe.. ‘M close... Gon- Gonna…” 

"Let me hear you, baby. Go on." 

He does, offering his heart and soul on a silver platter as he creams his briefs, as he screams out his beautiful release. Sure enough, five seconds into the high of his life, realization hits and shame comes crashing down on him.

 “Oh God… Fuck! Fuck!” He can’t stop, he’s in the middle of riding out one hell of an orgasm, in all honesty the best he's ever had. He’s going down in a blaze of glory. “Fuck! ’M sorry... ‘M so, so sorry.” 

“Don’t be.” 

Fuck that. He is. Feeling mortified doesn’t even come close. This is his friend, his batting for the other team male friend, the dude who loves other mechanics in his bed. He wants to crawl into a hole and die. 

He’s close to tears, embarrassed beyond words. No shit. Exploring each other’s tonsils on stage is one thing, this… This is a whole other thing, wrong on so many friendship levels, stepping on and over so many personal values. 

“Don’t be sorry. Am glad, honoured in fact, you shared this with me.” There’s nothing but raw honesty there. No resentment, no blame. No expectation of any kind. 

Still… “I used you.” There’s no other way to describe it. 

“Would you rather have wanted to do it with a stranger? Fuck 'em into oblivion?” It’s an open question, not an accusation. 

Surprisingly, it hurts. The question, to a point he never thought possible. To even imagine, that right now, he’s having some nameless stranger in his arms instead of a person he trusts with his life and beyond. “N- .. No.” 

“Me neither, baby.” 

He’s not pushed away, in fact it’s the opposite; he’s being pulled closer. He’s offered comfort, friendship, love. You name it, it’s right there, waiting for him to take. “Don’t ever be sorry about anything you and me do, baby… Even this.” Hearing it is good. It’s what he needs right now. “Never be sorry about it.”


	4. Ten Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten years of awesomeness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my wonderful sis, @slipoutofsight and her hubby: Happy 10th Anniversary!

This very day, ten years ago, is where it all began.

Why some people are absolutely drawn toward each other, more than others is a mystery of life. Or a well laid out plan by the powers that be. Or… Well, whatever... Whatever it is, it happened. Once upon a time, he and him fused together becoming _them_.

Why doesn’t matter, not when you have what they have. A bond so pure, so strong, so organic, not to mention so much more than anyone out there could ever fathom. A bond, many would kill to have, even for a while.

Ten years _is_ a long time. A decade of highs and lows and many in-betweens. A hundred and twenty months of insane adventures. Ten years of being a one half of something special, a unique and beautiful thing called _'us'_.  
  
He’s alone when he wakes, surrounded by warmth and the tell-tale scent of _them_. There’s no rush to wake up or get out of bed; he’ll be alone until late afternoon. That’s what you get working in the music industry: they have things to care of. _Things_ and _stuff_ that involve meeting folks at ungodly hours of the day.

Knowing all that, he blindly grabs for the t-shirt he knows is resting between their pillows. _His_ t-shirt, the one he slept in the night before. Even though they usually sleep naked, it’s a little thing they do sometimes. It’s a little something that means so much, knowing the other is close by even when they’re apart.

So what if he breathes in _his_ scent? So what it he puts in on and wraps his arms around himself, tugging an invisible love even closer?

When he’s ready to get out of bed, he spots a black rose resting on his nightstand and a note, sealed with a kiss. It’s so damn cheesy and so typically _him_ , his heart aches in the best way.

 

Where I was the water, you were the wine.  
Where I trashed and destroyed, you healed and restored.  
Whenever I was lost, you would find me. Every single time.  
  
When I cried you were my joy.  
When I laughed, you were my tears.

A fortress is nothing without its cornerstone.  
A fairy tale nothing without its prince  
A sunset cannot be without a sunrise.

I’ve lost count of the times I wanted to go left when you wanted right.  
Lost count of the times I’d say black and you’d say white.  
Lost count of the silent convos we’ve shared, laughing out loud like a couple of wackos.  
  
When I’d tell you to go to hell, you'd tell me 'and back, asshole'.  
When I whispered your name, you screamed out mine.  
  
You were and _are_ all of that...

You’re mine to love and hold.  
Mine to treasure.  
You’re mine, just as I am yours.

Ten years already, and I look forward to another ten years.  
  
I love you, babe,  
With every fiber in my body, from the depths of my soul, from here to there and beyond.  
  
Happy anniversary, baby  
xoxo

**Author's Note:**

> Not all, but some of the stories in this series will be way out of my comfort zone ... Comments are good. Comments help me grow as a writer. Don't be shy, worst case scenario I end up putting a curse on you :)


End file.
